


Separation Anxiety

by BakerTumblings



Series: Eyes Wide Open [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Blended Family Challenges, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Hurt John Watson, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Parenthood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-04-19 18:08:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19137937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: A little adventure of what can happen on Baker Street when John isn't at home.





	Separation Anxiety

**Author's Note:**

> Even though eight-year-old Sameer had not known his birth father, Capt. John H. Watson, MD, (Ret.), before coming to London, in a very short time he has grown very dependent on him. So when there is an unexpected separation, it rattles Sameer. 
> 
> This piece is part of a series about John, Sherlock, Rosie, and Sameer. Sameer lived in Afghanistan, unbeknownst to John, until the tragedy of losing his mother brought him to London. This story will make much more sense if read in conjunction with at least the first story of this Eyes Wide Open series, "Quite An Eyeful."
> 
> An intentionally jumpy and non-linear timeline, but clear in its own way. I hope you enjoy!

Sherlock faltered a little getting out of the cab, his usual routine derailed, the cab-mate who usually shared the back seat with him conspicuously absent. There was no other choice but for him to reach for his wallet, secure money, pay his own fare, get his own door for gods sake rather than attend to things on his mobile. John usually took care of things like that. And so much more.

But, under duress, Sherlock had left John behind. Not willingly, not by a long shot.

Deep breath, forward, one foot in front of the other, and he squared his shoulders ready to return to the flat, to the flat that would be unsatisfyingly occupied, insufficient people when compared to normal. Full of some of the right people, yet empty at the same time.

John hadn't been in any shape to help him work out what to tell Rosie, to tell Sameer, how much to reveal, what specifics to withhold. Mrs. Hudson, though, was another story; he was good at lying to her, but the kids, well, ... perhaps not the best plan of action.

From the stairwell, he could hear talking inside his home, the telly perhaps was on too. Much as he was glad to be home, he had hated leaving John behind and hesitatingly dreaded having to tell the kids. Rosie would be fine, unhappy perhaps, but all right. He wasn't too sure about how Sameer was going to react, and although he disliked thinking of him as fragile, it was in all likelihood a true description. The keys jingled between his fingers as he approached the door, a little dread bubbling in his chest.

Onward. Today, a soldier.

++

"Concussion." Sherlock had echoed the word from the treating A&E doc, hating himself as soon as he'd done it. "Okay, then." He paced a few steps outside John's darkened room. "How much longer until I can bring him home?"

"Tomorrow." The doctor could tell that Sherlock wasn't prepared - at all - for that news. "Maybe. Provided he's stable. And that the head injury, the dehydration has resolved."

From inside the room, the sound of terrible retching again followed by a groan of pain. "I can deal with _that_ at home."

"No." The doctor sighed, this just one more battle in his busy shift, of the unexpected injury, illness, accident, and terrible diagnoses. A bad day for everyone usually. "He needs IV fluids, nausea meds. IV pain meds."

Further inside the room, Sherlock was quite aware of John's distress, hearing some and intuiting the rest. Soft words from the nurse attending to him, soothing, a cloth to his face, and another to wipe at his mouth. A suction catheter, a bit of gagging, a tissue. The sound of the bed being adjusted. "If the vomiting stops?" Sherlock could hear the desperation creeping into his words, his voice.

"Listen. We can appropriately treat him here, keep an eye on him. Monitor the head injury. Hydrate him until the vomiting passes." Sherlock remained stonily silent at that, and he didn't care that the displeasure and willingness to bargain was evident on his expression. "Look here, Mr. Holmes. Isn't it about what's best for John?" More retching, the deep hollow kind that was followed by the sound of fluids into a basin and then suctioning again. "And I'm hoping not to put him through it, but if the meds don’t help him, he might end up needing a tube, a nasogastric tube - through the nose, into the stomach," and Sherlock was nodding and frowning at the same time at that unpleasant suggestion, "to decompress his belly and give him some relief."

 _Tomorrow,_  Sherlock thought. The sound of John's discomfort, an exhausted groan of pain, had Sherlock adding to his unspoken wish, _I hope._

++

Sherlock and John intentionally didn't seek out active or potentially dangerous crime scenes any longer. Their family situation required safer, less risky cases these days, so by choice - and with the blessing of the police force - their consulting was somewhat predictable, more sane, less variability. They still found plenty to do, interesting and challenging cases to investigate, and they tried to stay out of harm's way. Best intentions aside, particularly on calls like this one, there was still occasionally the unexpected opportunity for injury.

The case had started out benign, and an opportunity presented. Rosie had been at daycare, Sameer at school, and so when the text from Lestrade had come on John's clinic day off, they found themselves on location, helping with some investigating.

At the apparently not-abandoned building, the scene devolved, deteriorated due to an unknown variable, an assailant, and within a few minutes time there was danger, a chase, a call for assistance. John's knee-jerk response to attempt to render aid, provide help. He'd been close on the heels of one of the officers, neither of whom saw the weakened structures in the decrepit building until it was too late. The floor gave way; they both went down. The first officer suffered internal injuries and already was having a compound fracture of his leg set in the surgical theatre. John had hit his head on one of the floor supports as he fell, plummeting down with a shout. He'd been found unconscious, bleeding from his scalp, his body eerily and alarmingly still.

++

Sherlock hadn't mentioned the incident to anyone yet. For the most part, he wanted to be in his own home, to close the door on the outside world, and wait impatiently for time passing to bring about the return to normalcy.

Mrs. Hudson had been more than willing to keep an eye on the kids that day when he'd asked, a simple and vague text message he'd sent while at the hospital. It was not uncommon anyway, and she was waiting for him in the sitting room. Rosie was already in her pyjamas, curled up on their not-housekeeper-but-more-than-landlady's lap, holding her blanket and listening to Mrs. Hudson read a book to her. Sameer was working on a jigsaw puzzle, one of the more challenging ones that he and John worked on together each night. At two-thousand pieces, it was going to take them a while.

Sameer's head had raised almost immediately when he'd heard footsteps on the stairway, and he was watching expectantly. An eye narrowed as he saw Sherlock enter alone, close the door, hang up only one coat, and look to find him, their eyes connecting. Sherlock took in the state of the table - only a few pieces placed, others just rearranged - and that of Sameer: anxious, on edge, distracted. Sameer's hands fell to his lap as he sensed that something was greatly amiss. An ominous announcement was on the horizon.

"Where's papa?"

++

The flat was scary. Unsettling. _Wrong._

Sameer lay in bed missing the nighttime rituals, the word exchange, the languages they shared almost every night. He missed the routine, the familiarity, the way John's presence, his goodnight hug, gave him comfort and security. His chest, his head, it all felt cockeyed, his stomach somewhat queasy. Had he known how to describe the feeling he would have chosen lonely. Empty. The house without John, without his papa, felt absolutely terrible. He lay awake a very long time, listening, hoping that he would indeed hear familiar footsteps and the front door despite what he'd been told. Surely he wouldn't stay away, not if Sameer needed him.

But the house remained silent. Sameer lay for a long time, staring at the ceiling. His mind just would not settle. Not at all.

++

Platitudes.

_I'm sorry to have to tell you this, my son, but I'm not feeling well. I just need to rest ..._

_We’ll be okay._

_I'm sorry, but your mother won't be getting out of bed again ..._

_You'll be okay._

It had been Dari then, but the language didn't matter, the message was still the same. Sameer had heard it from one of the village medicine men when his mother had taken a turn for the worse. He heard it again when she got sicker, taken to the hospital. And again when they tried to explain that she'd died. They'd held his arm at first, preventing him from going to her, from seeing her. "She won't be coming home," they'd said. "I'm sorry." When he'd been finally taken to her side, he knew at first glance that he was alone. "I'm sorry," they'd said again.

It wasn't any better in English.

_I'm sorry, but your papa hurt his head. He needs to rest in the hospital, so he won't be coming home tonight._

_It'll be okay._

Sameer heard, remembered, and felt the harsh echos of what had been said before - ‘ _I'm sorry, but_ ,’ and even worse, apparently, the meaning behind the directive _‘needs to rest’_ \- as it slammed and ached inside his chest. The sadness was quite overwhelming, and he didn't know what else to do with his pain.

++

Sherlock's mobile pinged much later, hours having dragged by with a book, a movie in the sitting room before moving to the bedroom with restless energy.  _Ping_ , seemingly just after he'd fallen asleep, hating the cold other side of the bed, missing John, missing their routine, worried. For all the years of abysmal sleep hygiene, of not sleeping, and never enough restful hours, Sherlock was reconditioned to need it and to depend on John’s company, his influence, his habits, and often the warmth and proximity of his body, in order to bring it about.

 _Ping._  An incoming call with Mycroft’s caller ID.

Sherlock found no reason to camouflage his snappiness. "What."

Mycroft minced no words either. "Missing something?"

Sherlock's mind engaged immediately. Even upon being awakened (rudely), he could still fire off insults at his sibling with very little effort. "Missing out on what having a normal sibling might have been like. Must you, at this godawful hour?" In the pause, Sherlock waited only a second. "I think there's an all night bakery across from Victoria Station.”

"Sherlock." Mycroft's tone was insistent. "Are you _missing something?"_

Fine, whatever. Obviously, Mycroft was calling to annoy him, to express his dissatisfaction that Sherlock hadn't called him. Sherlock huffed, irritated, and counted to four before replying, "I didn't tell you about John's injury --"

"No." The interruption was curt. "Not that." Sherlock's phone pinged again with the sound of an incoming message.

A photo actually, slow to load, and Sherlock watched his mobile attentively while Mycroft, on the other end of the line, was curiously silent. The photo was low-lit, almost sepia toned. The image began to clear and sharpen from the top down.

It was John, laying in his hospital bed, cardiac monitor a-glow and the pixelated white sheets crawling into focus. The head of the bed was elevated. Also visible was an IV pump, illuminating the siderail with faint light from the display, a pillow, the usual hospital paraphernalia - overbed table, tissues, basin, nurse call. John's hair looked dark and tousled in the indirect lighting.

None of what he saw was surprising in the least - with one notable exception: Sameer, curled up next to him in the bed. Both of them still and quiet, seemingly asleep.

"Oh god," Sherlock breathed, an exhaled whisper of actual shock. There were a million questions, how did he get there, had he nicked an Oyster card, or walked? Did the hospital staff try to stop him, why didn't John himself call? How long did it take him, was he crying, how did Sherlock manage to miss the noise let alone the intent of him leaving? "Is he ... are they ...?"

Mycroft's words were reassuring - "He's okay. Upset earlier, calmed down quickly. One of my staff is outside their room as we speak" - cut through the barrage of thoughts, the jumbled stream of consciousness, the questions. "Go unlock your front door, there's an agent waiting so you can get to the hospital. My agent will stay at Baker Street until someone returns, or other arrangements are made. Perhaps Mrs. Hudson can be recruited in the morning. That way Rosie will at least have a familiar face if she awakens before you're home." Sherlock could hear rustling of papers. "I would come myself but I won't be back to London until the day after tomorrow."

Sherlock's feet had already propelled him out of bed, toward his clothes, and there were trousers and a shirt donned without consciously deciding, the mobile on speaker so Sherlock could fire off the opening words of a question only for Mycroft only to shush him. "I don't know much more than that. We'll talk later, but Sameer is all right for now. He and Dr. Watson are together. And safe."

On quiet feet he headed upstairs first. A quick pop of his head into Rosie's doorway - sleeping, stuffed doll on her pillow, blankets all tangled - before checking Sameer's room. His bed, made up crisply - John's influence, obviously - was devoid and empty.

++

From the desk, two guards kept an eye on the night cameras, the screens, the intercoms, and their monitoring duties. One sipped his coffee. The other browsed the hospital email for anything remotely interesting. Nothing urgent - delete, delete, delete. Middle of the night excitement was a rarity and usually involved the occasional drunken brawl, out of control drug addict, or giving directions to those seeking bathrooms, exits, and all-night coffee. This night had been no exception - only a few interactions so far.

The automatic doors swished and the newest arrival approached on the other side of the desk. Both took notice of the short stature of the solitary head across from them.

"How can I help you?"

A young lad, dark haired, stood opposite them. He was serious and alone, unusual for the hour and location.

The guard stood up, rounded the desk, and crouched down so that he was eye level with their middle of the night visitor. "Are you here by yourself?" The boy shook his head no. "Who is with you?"

"My papa is upstairs. I need to see him."

"Visiting hours are long over, you know." The other guard, still seated, added, "It's very late." Gesturing to the doors that Sameer had entered from, he asked, "Is your mum here, waiting for you?"

"I don't have a mum. She died." There was a rapid blinking, a faint twitch of a mouth trying not to cry.

Seeing this, the guard softened right away, figuring he didn't need all the details or an upset child before just getting the kid where he needed to be. "Okay." The boy looked up, then, and the guard was a bit taken aback at the sight of the determined youngster all alone, standing there mostly calm, with the bronzed skin, bright eyes, and nervous demeanor. "I'll help you, okay?" The boy looked down at the floor and gave a small nod. "What room is your papa in?" There was a shrug and a whisper that sounded like it might have been I don't know. "What is his name?"

"John Watson."

"All right. We'll find out where he is, his room number, and take you there."

The other guard logged into the computer, typed a few things, and spoke. "Ah, here he is. Room 1147. Telemetry." The guard glanced around, half expecting to see someone with him, or looking for him, or waiting, but the hallway and lobby were deserted. "Does he know you're here? At this hour?"

Slowly, reluctantly, the boy shook his head in the negative and didn't raise his eyes at all. "I need to be with my papa."

"I'll ring the nurses station."

++

The hospital hallways overnight were dimly lit, an ethereal almost ghoulish quality, but Sherlock barely noticed anything as he followed the signs toward John's room, his shoes smacking smartly in rapid, confident but hurried steps. A man in a suit, one Sherlock didn't recognise outright but knew immediately was one of Mycroft's, was seated on a chair in the hallway, keeping watch, close enough to get involved if something was needed while not disturbing anything or anyone.

He obviously knew who Sherlock was and had been expecting him. Rising to his feet, he extended a hand. "Mr. Holmes." Sherlock returned the handshake. "They are both asleep."

On silent feet, Sherlock stepped into the room a little farther, seeing them resting, the two of them close in the small hospital bed. John was on his back, the faint light from the bedside heart monitor casting a dim shadow over one side of his face. Even in the almost darkness, Sherlock could see that John was haggard, his skin turgor poor, bags under his eyes, and he could tell that it had been a rough night already.

Returning to the hall, he kept his voice low. "Thanks. Mycroft asked you to wait?"

"Yes, and I'll be taking off now that you've arrived." Sherlock breathed a quiet thank you as the agent, without any further discussion, was swallowed into the hallway as he strode away. 

One of the nurses had been watching and approached, a smile of amusement and chagrin. "You must be John's partner." Brief introductions followed, and then the nurse lowered her voice and stealthily eyed the sleeping people in the room. "Vomited last about an hour ago. We have to wake him for neuro checks every so often. But since Sameer snuggled up with him, they've both been fine. I do have to go in now, though, so." Sherlock followed her and stood quietly, watching, as the nurse eyed the patient, checking the IV pump, the bedside monitor, and then brushed her hand over John's upper arm lightly. Her voice was gentle and hushed. "Dr. Watson?"

John's breathing pattern changed as he awakened, his body stretching and the sheet bunching up as he moved. There was a groan and then faint murmuring of one-syllable answers in response to her questions, and his voice was low and tired and slower in cadence than Sherlock had heard in a long while. He didn't sound like himself.

Sameer, Sherlock took note, just lay quietly as the nurse cued John through a few basic orientation questions, a request for him to rate his headache pain, and an offer to use the toilet if needed. 

"Mm," John said apparently in the affirmative, his voice fatigued as if the idea was exhausting enough.

"All right. And oh, you have another visitor."

John opened one eye, closed it again. If Sherlock hadn't been studying him intently, he would have missed it, because neither occupant of the bed had moved much, John probably out of pain and nausea and Sameer because he was probably trying not to be noticed. He was absorbing as much radiant comfort as he could, being close to John. John's hand, with the IV infusing into the back of it, rested next to Sameer's shoulder and though they weren't touching, the presence and heat of another body was probably very reassuring.

From the nurse's side, Sherlock spoke up. "Hey." He looked closely at Sameer, smiling down at him, seeing the glittering eyes that blinked back at him. "How about you and I visit a little while the nurse helps papa out for a few minutes?"

"Stay here," Sameer whispered as he seemed to press his body further into the mattress. "I can stay here, please?" Though he obviously didn't want to move from his spot next to John, he sat up to leave John room to get settled with the nurse, to prepare to move about. Sherlock folded his long legs into the tall-backed chair at John's bedside and drew Sameer toward him while they watched John move with assistance, pushing his IV as the nurse steadied him as they shuffled toward the bathroom. He'd barely managed to get a few steps across the room when the retching began, followed by a moan. The nurse had quickly provided a basin as they went.

Sherlock didn't speak to Sameer, simply wrapped his arms about the boy's thin frame, a hand coming up into his hair in comfort. The tension in his little body was impossible to ignore, and Sherlock took note of some other things in the room. Sameer's shoes had been removed, tucked under the foot of John's bed. His jacket had been draped over the footboard, and there were two cups of water, both with straws, on John's overbed table. The nurse had obviously taken care of even these small things, compassionately caring for not only John, but for John's son.

The nurse and John exchanged small observations in the bathroom, and they could hear the sound of hand-washing, a toothbrush, of the light flicking off. And then John was back, exhausted from the activity and tucked into bed again, the pillow adjusted.

"You guys okay?" the nurse asked then, smoothing the light blanket over John's torso. "Need anything?"

John was silent, and the nurse glanced at the chair where Sherlock still cuddled Sameer. "We're fine," Sherlock breathed quietly.

"Call bell," the nurse said, tapping at the button clipped to John's siderail. "Back soon to check on you all."

++

"Come on, then." The security guard reached out a hand in Sameer's direction. The boy blinked hard a few times, obviously deciding if he was going to take it or not. "I'll take you on up to your papa okay? The nurse is waiting for us."

Sameer still stood quietly, troubled, his eyes wide and solemn. He didn't move.

"My grandson's about your age, I think. You're about, what six? Seven?" Sameer didn't answer that at all, so the guard continued. "His name is Philip. What's your name?"

Hesitantly, he did finally answer. "Sameer."

"Sameer. You've come a long way by yourself to stop here in the hallway." He smiled, trying to be reassuring. "Where's home?"

"Afghanistan." His answer almost seemed a surprise to him, and Sameer amended, "Now, London."

The man smiled a bit broader. "London and Afghanistan are very different, aren't they?" Sameer shrugged, not really wanting to engage with this man who was standing between he and his papa. "Have you been in London a long time?"

Sameer continued to stand there, not answering. The other guard chuckled from behind the desk. "You've lost your touch, mate."

"Piss off," the man breathed back at him, and at that phrase that Sameer had heard a few times since coming to London, the boy's head raised and his eyes lit up a little. Noticing that, the guard chuckled. "Oh, you like me getting into a bit of trouble, do you?" Shaking his head with another sigh of amusement, he said, "Come on then. I'm to deliver you to the nurse who's with your papa. They're waiting on us."

Slowly, tentatively, Sameer slid his hand into that of the security guard, and accompanied him through the automatically locking doors into the depths of the hospital.

 ++

"John."

The pounding inside John's head was baseline staticky and driving the beat terribly, and the speaking grated on his headache, on his nausea, on even his hair follicles. The sutures felt raw, the area behind his eyes was vibrating, and he wanted, _needed_ relief.

"Dr. Watson," the voice pressed. There was a gentle hand on the back of his wrist.

"Mmmm." It was the best he could do.

"Your son is here." At that, John couldn't make sense of that concept because it was impossible. His brows furrowed and from his throat came a questioning sound, and even that hurt, and the nurse repeated it. "Your son is here."

He kept his head on the pillow as the room spun, but he opened an eye. "What?" The concentration required to listen, to speak, made the throbbing in his head worse.

"Security called. You have a son Sameer?" John nodded, but just barely, and it was followed by a throaty protest. "Sameer is here. They're bringing him up."

"Can't be." 

"Do you want me to call someone?"

"What time --?" And mid-sentence, his head throbbed, his stomach rebelled, and between he and the nurse, they barely managed to get a basin to him in time.

His chest ached by the time the retching had passed, and the nurse brought him medication that hadn't helped yet but there was little else to try. By the time the med had been slowly given into his IV, several other people were at the door. One of them sported a blue-badged uniform and held the hand of a small, familiar - very familiar - boy. Their silhouettes in the door frame, backlit, were oddly juxtaposed - one stocky adult, one slim child.

"Papa?" His voice crackled with emotion and stress, and sounded very young.

The light in the room was dim but enough to see that the security guard exchanged a few quiet words with the nurse. Sameer stood in the doorway his face set, and John lifted a tired hand to beckon him over.

Sameer's wide eyes blinked, taking in the unfamiliar equipment, the heart monitor, the IV pump, the bed and siderails, not to mention John's frailty, but his stubborn feet didn't move until the nurse dismissed the guard and ushered him in, guiding him closer to John's bedside. It was then, when they were in close proximity, that Sameer saw John up close, living, breathing, moving and watching him back, it was then that he just let out a guttural sob and ... _crumpled._

Tears streamed from the face that seconds before had been strong, stoic, focused. Funny thing about being in survivor mode, that sometimes, the moment there is another person to shoulder the responsibility, or to relinquish the responsibility to, it can lead to a meltdown of relief. Sameer had been strong and determined and now that he'd accomplished what he set out to, he felt apparently, that he could let his guard down and surrender to it. The shoulders that had been so upright leaned in and Sameer buried his face in his hands, setting his head down on the mattress at John's side. Even as John's head pounded more, he shifted his body, over in the bed, closer to the opposite siderail, making room. "Come on." His rough voice was gravelly and slow. "Come."

With some helpful hands from the very sympathetic and compassionate nurse, between the two of them, they helped Sameer scoot over into the bed, tucking his shuddering body close to John. There was vague awareness that his shoes had been removed, his jacket tugged from him, and a sheet placed where it could be pulled over him when he was cooler. "It's okay," the nurse said quietly, sensing that John wanted to speak and to comfort the boy, noting John's body language, his glance at her, and his own distress. She continued, "You're here now, and you're both all right." She used a tissue, blotted at Sameer's tears, stroking lightly at his temple, then tucked a dry tissue into his hand. "You're safe here." Sameer's tears, after a few moments, stopped, but his eyes remained wide, blinking, his hand fisting over John's patient gown. Time passed a little, until soon, he turned his head toward John, tucking his nose against him. His eyes closed and he took another deep, fluttery breath, then a calmer one under the nurse's kind smile and observation.

A few additional adjustments of John's pillow, the head of the bed, and inspection of the IV and monitoring equipment, and the nurse pressed the call bell into John's free hand. "If you need. I'll come round again shortly."

++

The room settled once the nurse left, and John lay quietly, willing the pain in his head to abate, though ineffectively. He faced the larger part of the room, where he could somewhat make out the form of Sherlock sprawled in the chair, Sameer in his lap, both of them awake, a little tense.

Sherlock kept his voice light and quiet. "Thank god he made it here safely. On his own, even." Sherlock shook his head a little, imaging that the journey couldn't have been easy. With a furrowed brow, he settled Sameer sideways in the chair, leaning back himself, trying to get comfortable. He found such comfort himself in holding the boy as he tucked Sameer's shoulder against his own, feeling the warmth and hoping the security in the hug was reciprocated. "I was worried about you," he said quietly to Sameer as he brushed his fringe off his forehead. "I'm sorry you didn't come get me first." His hand rubbed a small circle against Sameer's back and he felt the boy relax slightly. "I didn't realise ..." and he let the sentence trail off.

"How did you --?" _know._ John's body lay completely still, but Sherlock watched his heart rate rise with exertion or emotion. Or, given the grimace and the furrow he could barely make out between his brows, discomfort.

"Surveillance. Mycroft. Unfortunately it was picked up too late, Sameer was already here in the building." He explained succinctly, calmly, about the photo, the attendant who'd been sent to their flat, and the plans to talk with Mrs. Hudson in the morning. "And Rosie was fine, still asleep when I checked on her." Sherlock took stock in where they were, at John's present status, at Sameer's position and level of discomfort. "But, both of you, please rest a bit - sleep if you can. I will keep watch and we'll sort this out during day hours." John gave the smallest nod and Sherlock could see that his eyes relaxed as he tried to follow directions. He tucked his own head down toward Sameer's. "Remember I said papa needed to rest? Well, he still does, so you and I will stay here a short time and make sure no one disturbs him. Like Uncle Mycroft." The attempt at humour fell a little short, but he knew that Sameer usually was somewhat amused and found Mycroft a curiosity. His words turned to small murmurings as he could feel Sameer wriggle himself into a more comfortable lie position, but he kept speaking for a few minutes after he felt Sameer's muscles slide into that relaxed phase that could only mean he'd fallen asleep. Minutes later, he could feel Sameer twitch lightly, the whole body response, as he slipped into a deeper phase of sleep.

The door to John's room widened, and the nurse walked in on silent shoes again. She held a blanket out, and after he nodded, she spread it out over both he and Sameer. It was fresh from the warmer, and more soothing than Sherlock would have expected. The door narrowed on her way out, and so did his eyelids. In those few uninterrupted minutes, all three of them managed to - at least briefly - sleep. 

++

The physician stood with arms on his hips at the foot of John's bed. "And you've eaten lunch, kept something down today?"

John nodded faintly.

"IV fluids were capped this morning. No further vomiting?" The next question also resulted in a small, affirmative nod from John. "Feeling able to get out of here?"

"I think so," he managed to whisper. "Knackered mostly."

"Pain number?"

"Four."

"All right. I'll put in your discharge orders for this afternoon. Provided no set-backs and you're able to eat your next meal and keep it down." The doctor looked at John, then at Sherlock who stood near the window. Sameer had scooted the chair as close as he could to John's bed and was warily watching the adults in the room. "Sound like a plan? Any questions?" Sherlock shook his head no. The doctor grabbed lightly at John's toe under the sheets, a parting farewell, as he left.

"I strongly suggest you catch a nap while you can," Sherlock advised as he watched John try to keep his eyes open. "We're going to step out, and then be back in a little bit." As he'd thought, Sameer's eyes widened in fear and he moved back further in the chair he was already sitting in, claiming his territory as it were. Or at least trying to.

"I will stay," he said as Sherlock offered his hand. It seemed that he was trying to mesh with the furniture in an attempt to stay.

Murmuring came from the pillow, but it was unintelligible.

Sherlock's brow raised only slightly, and he didn't focus on John's words yet, answering Sameer again, gently. "We'll go get something to eat, find a little cafe close by, go for a walk, and come back."

"I'm not hungry." Sameer probably was unaware of the desperation in his little voice.

" -'s fine here." John tipped his head off the pillow so that his sentence would be understood.

"John." Sherlock pressed a little, and something in his tone gave John enough motivation to open his eyes and look at him. There was an extended moment of eye contact, of some non-verbal communication, of Sherlock trying to impress on him the need to back off, and then Sherlock continued, addressing John first. "You need to rest, and we need to eat. A little fresh air would be wise." Turning then, he focused on Sameer, who looked back only for a few seconds and then looked sharply, somewhat desperately over at John, hoping for another, more effective, intervention. Sherlock on the other hand hoped for cooperation.  _"John."_

"Go ahead." His voice was still slow and tired, but he managed enough energy to open an eye and look at Sameer, hoping to convey encouragement. A directive. "Sleepy."

Sherlock made sure to speak gently, though he could well imagine that it wouldn't be received that way. "Come with me. Papa will be fine, and we should let him rest in a very quiet room."

"I am quiet." Sameer tucked up his legs, folding them up to his chest and lowering his head to his knees as if to prove it.

"Sameer," Sherlock began but stopped when he saw Sameer's shoulders tremble. He took a knee by the chair but didn't touch. "I know you want to stay, and that you're worried to leave." He hesitated, thinking that he was especially ill-equipped to deal with most adults let alone children who had deep-rooted fears. "But you can trust me that I'm going to take care of you." He made sure his words were clear and slowly spoken, pausing to make sure Sameer understood. "And we all need to trust the doctors and nurses to take care of papa. We're also going to trust papa to take good care of himself and rest and get stronger." Placing Sameer's shoes in front of him, he gestured that they should be put on, and he continued. "When we come back, it will only be for a little while longer and then we can bring papa home. Because that's the plan. And you know, I think Rosie will be glad to see all of us."

John cleared his throat just a little to get Sherlock's attention, and there was some quick questioning and reassurances going back and forth as they locked eyes. He looked over at Sameer. "Go on. I'm fine." John's sentence was quietly reassuring, although all of them in the room would have disputed the fact that John wasn't actually _fine_. Close enough, and point taken.

Sameer wanted to protest, to dig in his heels and refuse. The desire to stay was clearly written across every bit of his face, across his emotions as he put on his shoes, in the way he reluctantly took Sherlock's hand, and on the slow pace he assumed as he - thankfully, obediently - accompanied Sherlock from the room.

++

They had been home only a day when a package was delivered, addressed to Sameer. His bemusement turned to excitement when he opened the small box to find a simple wristwatch. It was appropriately boy-sized and had a few digital buttons and a bright blue velcro strap.

He was thrilled then, as he was reminded that both his papa and Sherlock wore one, and that Rosie had a smaller toy version. Sherlock helped him adjust the fit of the band, set the time, explaining the buttons a little, before rejoining John who was resting on the couch.

"Mycroft?" John asked, discreetly.

"Yes."

"Tracking capabilities?"

Sherlock smiled in response, an enigmatic smile that turned into something more lopsidedly cute before becoming bland and approaching innocent. No additional confirmation was needed.

++ 

"Where are your shoes?" John ignored the dull headache that still remained, even after these long days that had stretched into almost a week. "You need to leave for school."

Sameer's expression turned even more solemn. "Are you going out today?" he asked of John.

"Going out? I don't think so." John's mind still felt foggy, as if he just wasn't keeping up. "Do you need something? For school or ...?"

John stopped speaking when he felt Sherlock's warm hand on his arm. "I'm going to be keeping an eye on him today. And no, no field trips or work. Just being boring here on the couch probably." Sherlock's tone was matter-of-fact and businesslike at the same time. "Today he is just recovering, letting his head heal."

John blinked a few times, realising the subtext finally. "Please try not to worry. I'll be careful and certainly, I will be here when you get home." At John's words, his promise, Sameer hedged, his bright eyes looking into John's, which were not quite as sharp as usual, given the head injury and residual headache. "I'll be waiting for you."

Sameer nodded slowly, but he worried at his lower lip between his teeth. Sherlock's voice was soft again, "Shoes, all right? We have to leave soon."

Apparently he wasn't done, and lobbied one last attempt. "Can I stay home?" Sameer looked between them, leaving his eyes holding on John as he stood waiting. "Please?" Those bright eyes shimmered against his darker complexion and he was almost pleading with them. "My stomach is ... sick." The obvious lie was probably more than projection, because Sameer probably did feel a little queasy. It made John want to hug him and take him to the couch where they could pass the day, but he knew beyond the slightest doubt that Sameer's best interests, his best strategy for conquering his separation anxiety included attending school.

Since coming home from the hospital, Sameer had been hyper-vigilant about keeping one eye on John. On knowing what their plans were. On asking their plans, on doing his best to stay in the same room if possible. He'd even become alarmed a time or two when John had visited the bathroom and was out of his eyesight.

"I think you should go to school," John said quietly, "just like you've always done. Tell you what," he added, taking hold of Sameer's hand and squeezing it, "we'll say goodbye here, and you'll put your lunch in your backpack. Sherlock and Rosie will walk you today, just like last week when I was here." John's head protested as he got up from his chair, but he gathered up Sameer's shoes. It would be worth it to make an effort, to ease Sameer's troubled thoughts. "But first, these need to go on your ears where they belong." John held the shoes, one on either side of Sameer's head. "Oh, no, not there, I forgot. They go here on your hands, right?"

Sameer didn't want to, and tried hard not to, but he let out a little giggle as John tried to slide the shoes over Sameer's fingers. "No, not there." Sameer's voice was tentative and wavery, but at least he was interactive.

"Right," John said, tugging at Sameer's leg very mildly and gently until Sameer ended up on the floor on his back with John holding onto the leg and trying to fit the wrong shoe on it. "Perhaps not."

"Dear me, you and your head injury." Sherlock, playing along, brushed at John's hands, secured Sameer's shoes in their proper places, and then reached out a hand toward Sameer. "Time to go, I think."

With a bustle of activity, Rosie, Sherlock, and Sameer swept out of the flat with a minimum of fuss. They'd seen this brewing, Sameer's reaction to John's injury, and decided to continue as normal as possible, to keep goodbyes minimal and smoothly brief, and to make sure that it was Sherlock who did the actual delivery to school because Sameer separated a bit easier from him as opposed to John.

Settling back in the quiet, almost too quiet flat, John exhaled and the throbbing in his head eased as he settled back in his chair. They would get through this too.

++

Mrs. Hudson had arrived in plenty of time to mind Rosie while John, Sherlock, and Sameer went on their outing. A brief tube ride, a few blocks' walk, and shortly they were ushered into an office. As they'd done previously, they sat opposite a small table and a smiling young woman.

"Good to see you all. How are you recovering, Dr. Watson?"

John smiled back, but gave a mediocre wave of his hand. "Fair. Haven't been cleared to return to work yet."

"Headaches?"

"Improving. As is concentration, so." John squinted a little. "Not quite back to baseline but progressing."

"Good to hear." She greeted Sherlock, too, and they exchanged some inane pleasantries, then she turned to smile brightly at Sameer. "And how are you, young man?"

"Okay."

"School going all right this week?"

He gave a half-hearted shrug before answering. "Okay."

She didn't belabour the point, particularly given Sameer's already nervous behaviour as if he were awaiting unpleasantness. With a direct approach and kindness in her voice, she began. "Last week we talked about taking small steps, making little choices, and being brave as you can while you all get used to this." Sameer fiddled with his watch strap. "Do you remember that?"

"Yes."

"Do you think we can try it?" Her words were carefully inflected, casual but direct. "We'll ask your papa and Mr. Holmes to step out for the first part of our meeting, and then they'll come back in at the end?"

There was some collective adult male breath-holding in the absolutely silent room until Sameer nodded. The therapist flicked her eyes quickly at them, then at the door. As they'd discussed, making a minimum of fuss about leaving would be optimal if at all possible.

"Good for you. That's a great choice, Sameer." John and Sherlock had risen as directed, and were shutting the door behind them when they could hear the therapists words resume, speaking genuinely as she gave him the positive reinforcement, "I'm so proud of you for that."

John and Sherlock had a seat on the couch in the therapist's waiting room, and their hands met, squeezed once in support. "And now we wait." Sherlock's fingers drummed, then his knee twitched, his foot bouncing as he tried to get comfortable while they waited. Restlessly, he glanced left, right, at the end tables, his shoes, John's shoes, the decor, the furnishings.

"There isn't one." John's words cut into the room, although they were quiet. "And even if there were, _no_."

"What?"

"An ashtray." John couldn't stop the small giggle, and he shook his head. "There isn't one." They exchanged smiles then enjoyed a few minutes of silence. After a bit, they could hear Sameer’s muffled voice and laughter coming from inside the office. It was a very satisfying sound.

++

Improvement happened gradually. Sameer progressed in small doses.

Some of it was in the way both John and Sherlock kept him informed.

"See you, I’ll be home from work soon."

"Take care, I’ll be a half hour at the store."

After a bit, Sameer's remarks turned from worried to curious. And then sometimes his previous anxious questions were absent altogether.

John met Sameer at the doorway, having heard him bound up after answering the door. "I got invited with a school friend to see a movie and then his parents said we'd get dinner. I think we're getting burgers." John could see the excitement in Sameer's face as he added, "Can I go?" Over Sameer's shoulder, in the doorway off Baker Street, he could see both the friend and the parents nodding, waiting. He knew them peripherally. "Please?"

"I suppose," he said, watching Sherlock hand over some money. "Have fun and --" his words trailed off as Sameer had already scampered away, down the steps and he was gone.

The outer door slammed shut. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Without John in the flat, Sherlock and Sameer were both out of sorts, in their own ways. I'm sure Sherlock will be lamenting having missed the signs that Sameer was going to sneak out of the flat to go find John in the hospital.
> 
> ++
> 
> I have a little clean-up still to do on this chapter, but it is getting posted because RL and draft deletion looming dates and ... reasons. Please let me know gently if there are typos or little areas that need to be clarified.
> 
> ++
> 
> The focus of this story is not necessarily on concussion care, but vomiting frequently accompanies the first hours after a concussion, and can be exacerbated by movement, changing positions, or other factors. The early days of concussion management can greatly impact the recovery period and outcome. It involves rest, decreased stimulation, minimizing screen time and reading along with other activities that worsen symptoms, and monitoring. If you like other Johnlock Concussion stories, there are a lot by many people, but one of mine is called Not Quite in his Right Mind. At some point I will get this to be an actual link. ;-)
> 
> ++
> 
> Separation anxiety is hard enough for children and families without issues such as what Sameer had endured, and I'm sure it will be dealt with gently and effectively over time.


End file.
